


A Study in Laurette

by Garren



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garren/pseuds/Garren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new girl stumbles into the life of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. It is discovered she is much more than just a plain girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Bum in the Bins.

**Author's Note:**

> "There was a bum poking out from behind a bin."
> 
> This is my fist fic so its am extremely short chapter just to see how it goes. If you want more tell me.

It was only about ten o’clock in the morning when John arrived at 221b Baker St. The sky was completely shaded with clouds and it looked as if it was about to rain. He stepped out of his cab and sighed as he lifted the weight of five grocery bags. The contents of which were quite quaint. He was not positive on exactly why Sherlock asked him to buy these things, he only knew that they were for an experiment that apparently is important enough to wake him up at bloody nine o’clock in the morning on a Saturday. He was reaching for his keys to the flat (while juggling the grocery bags) when Mrs. Hudson abruptly opened the door. She gasped in surprise and put her hand on her heart.  
“Oh goodness.” She said drawing long breaths. “I heard something out by my bins! I thought it might be a cat or-or a rabid animal!” John shifted his weight.  
“You could’ve gotten Sherlock to help.”  
“Oh, I tried. He was too interested in his work, you know how he gets.” John grinned at the ground. “You better hurry up with those groceries, he’s getting quite antsy.”  
“Here“ John grunted handing over the groceries to Mrs. Hudson “You take these to Sherlock I’ll check out the cat-animal-thing.”   
“Oh, okay dear.” John was already walking around the side of the building. “Be careful!” she shouted.  
“As always!” he answered.   
As John turned the corner the bins came into sight. The closer he got the more certain he was of what he saw. There was a bum poking out from behind a bin. This was not at all what the doctor expected. “Um…” he said nearing the bum. “Hello?” he took a few more steps closer. “Hello?” he asked again, crooking his head to get a better view. That time it gasped. Out popped a head of a young girl in a school uniform. Her face was smeared with something, probably from the rubbish she was digging in. Her hair was black, or at least it looked black, and cut in a bob. She straightened her plaid skirt and brushed of her white shirt. She took a deep breath. “Are… are you okay?”  
“I am just fine.” She said sternly sweeping hair away from her eyes. Just then the rain started to pour, John looked up at the sky and then crossed his arms. He was about to ask the girl if she needed help when she spoke again. “So, are you going to invite me inside Dr. Watson? Or am I going to have to walk in and see him myself.”  
“How did you-“  
“I know many things Dr. Watson. Now I suggest we go inside before I catch a cold.”


	2. Bin Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John uncover the secrets of "bin girl's" life. Major Character development.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Cheekbones and his Hedgehog."
> 
> *Please Note*: 1)I am an American trying to write a British story, sorry if I get some things wrong. I have been googling the most absurd things like "British laundry detergent" just trying to get everything right. Please, forgive me if something is incorrect. Also, please (nicely) inform me of these mistakes so I do not make them again. (www.garrenswift.tumblr.com)
> 
> 2) This is my first fanfic so please keep an open mind. Thanks :)

The stairs moaned exhaustingly as John walked up the steps to 221B Baker Street, “Bin Girl” following behind, observing. She concluded that the building must be approximately thirty-seven and three-quarters of a year old. She also concluded that an older women lives downstairs judging by the faint smell of one, among about 342, unique perfumes that went off the market some 40 or so years ago. Another obvious give away were the tiny scrapes, quite clearly made by a small ring, most likely size 5, left in the railing. Which of course, the old women would use when she went up the stairs, which quite frankly, looks like she does a considerable amount. She’s their housekeeper maybe? Possibly. Although, slightly unlikely. Why would your neighbor be your housekeeper?  
As they neared the entrance to the living room of the flat, the girl was suddenly hit with an unfamiliar smell. Each home has its own unique aroma but this one, well, was a little tricky to figure out. It smelled almost as a library, a little musty. With every home you can almost immediately tell if someone uses a different laundry detergent. (or was that just her?)Bin girl could tell exactly which detergent they use, which was “Aldi” but with no specific fragrance like say, lavender. She couldn’t make out the smell that lies under that though. The aroma of chemicals concealed it astonishingly well. It was quite new to her and not very pleasant. She almost thought it smelled of, (oh what’s the right word) decaying.  
“Ah, yes.” She mumbled. “Decaying.”   
“I’m sorry what? “ John paused at the top of the stairs and looked at the girl with a raised eyebrow. She was staring off, almost detached from the world. John thought this gaze vaguely familiar. The girl blinked several times and then met John’s confused gaze.  
“What?” The way she looked at John suggested she thought he was insane. John hesitated a minute before turning towards the door and sighing;  
“Nothing…” John walked through the door way and took off his damp jumper while bin girl stood by the coffee table dripping so much she had already begun to make a small puddle. She crossed her arms as a soaked strand of hair fell over her face. “Sherlock,” John pronounced. “We have a visitor.” The rain picked up. It drummed its sad song on the windows, and came down in thick streams. The room grew dim and eerie. Bin girl noticed the clutter throughout the flat. Piles of books, loose papers, there was even a knife stuck in wall by the fireplace. She did expect this though, although it was not as bad as she imagined. You see, she read Sherlock’s website and John Watson’s blog. It took her longer than she would like to admit, but she did eventually deduce that Sherlock is a highly functioning sociopath. Although, there was one flaw in her acquisitions she was not certain about. Sociopaths don’t have feelings, in fact, they mimic them. She was not completely positive if this was the case with Sherlock. After all, he did get a flat mate. What kind of sociopath would do that? Just as she started to try and explore the possibilities, Sherlock theatrically cleared his throat.  
“Busy.” He looked away from his microscope but only to quickly jot something down on the notepad he had next to him. There was a bag of what seemed like human finger nails thrown askew.   
“Excuse me?” John put his jumper over the back of a chair that sat at a table between the windows.  
“I said,” he adjusted his microscope, still not wasting time to look up at who he was talking to. “I’m busy.” He wore an alarmingly tight purple shirt.  
“Doing what? Working yourself to death?” John stood with one hand still on top of his jumper. Sherlock kept his face in his microscope. John breathed profoundly out of his nose and then marched from the room. Bin girl glanced at the coffee table, there was a newspaper that looked rather yellow compared to the ones next to it. The date read 27th of August, 1912. She turned her eyes back towards Sherlock observing him when John came back into the room with a white towel and handed it to her.  
“Thank you.” She said emotionlessly. She starting to run the towel through her hair. Sherlock glanced up. He was intrigued she sounded young.  
“Do you remember-“John began.  
“Most likely.” Sherlock interrupted. John carried on, this must happen a lot.  
“Do you remember Mrs. Hudson telling you something was out by her bins?” Sherlock remained silent, adjusting his microscope with the wheels on its sides. “Well, this is it.”  
“Her.” Bin girl retorted. “I’m a her, not an it” Sherlock looked up and met her gaze. Her towel now resting on her shoulders. Being him, he had already deduced her from the short glance earlier. It was like reading an open book. He looked at her for a few seconds before returning to his notepad.  
“May I ask what you were doing in Mrs. Hudson’s bins?” His voice was deep, it found its way In her ears, down her spine and through her whole body, giving her chills. Of course she’s heard it before on the television but never it real life. It’s very different.  
“Oh I think you already know.” This he was slightly thrown by this, but only for a second. (Probably less) “In fact, you probably know my whole life story by now.” Sherlock stood and walked over to the counter were the electric kettle was, he picked it up and walked over to the sink to fill it with water.  
“Perhaps, but where’s the fun in that?” he finished filling the kettle, the handle creaked as he turned the water off. He placed the kettle on the counter and turned it on. Sherlock pulled out three mugs from the cupboard.   
“For a highly function sociopath? All the fun in the world.” She tilted her head slightly and grinned. John stared at the girl, and then at Sherlock and then the girl again. Was she some kind of genius too? A teenage girl Sherlock? The thought sent shivers down his spine. Sherlock flashed a quick grin, his back still to the both of them. His mobile phone is sitting on the counter, his back gives him enough cover to be quick and stealthy about his research.  
“Did a bit of research I presume?” He put the tea bags into the mugs, the water was almost to a boil. He turned back around and peered into his microscope again and then scratched something down on the notepad.  
“I guess you could say that. I looked at your website.”  
“And?” Sherlock said, stuffing his hand into his pockets.  
“Honestly?”  
“If you wouldn’t mind.”  
“I loved it.” John was taken aback, he never met someone who actually liked that stupid thing. Nobody read his bloody website!  
“Really?” Sherlock said plainly and doubtfully. He checked the kettle.  
“Really. It’s a shame you deleted Analysis of Tabaco Ash, that one was my favorite.”  
“You’re kidding me.” John fussed. Sherlock poured the hot water into the mugs.  
“No John, I am not.” She spits out the word “John” like poison. “It’s the only website I have read that is remotely interesting and not filled to the brim with idiocy.” Sherlock doesn’t grin, but only because this could be an execrable attempt to win him over. “By the way, I highly recommend sharpening your writing skills.” Sherlock does grin at this because he knows it’s true. John’s writing abilities match those of a sixth grader. John’s face does not look amused. “You two are getting quite lionized you know. So much so that ladies are starting to fancy you. The girls at school can’t stop talking about “Cheekbones and his Hedgehog.”   
“His what?” John is aghast, he keeps looking back and forth between them. Very much not amused.   
“No, they don’t.” Sherlock gives John and the bin girl there tea and goes back into the kitchen to grab his.  
“What?” Bin girl replies even though she knows what he means. She knew this was going to happen and yet she still dreads it. Sherlock grabs the chair that John’s jumper is on and sets it in front of the coffee table. John and bin girl take opposite ends of the couch.  
“That uniform, It’s from Richardson Academy, as it says right there under the school coat of arms on the left hand side of your shirt. While you two weren’t looking I took the time to find their website on my mobile phone, where it clearly states they let out at two in the afternoon. Now John, when did you find her?”  
“Uh,” he takes a sip from his mug. “about ten-ish?”  
“Exactly, now, you might be asking what if they got out early? What if they had off today? I also took time to look at their school calendar which denies both. Also, they seem to have very strict rules and regulations which would forbid any kind of dying of hair which you obviously did, considering completely black hair does not exist and your eyebrows are a dark drown, most likely stolen hair dye since you have no home and live on the streets. Your first shower or bath in days was that rain shower. The school would have kicked you out for dying your hair but that’s not the case here. You never went there, you stole those clothes from the rubbish. I also know this because its last years uniform, I know that from pictures on the website, and is not in perfect shape, it’s also a size to big but that’s just because you rarely eat and refuse to go to soup kitchens because either your stubborn and rather eat trash or you fear they’ll realize your only about sixteen and stick you in an orphanage or foster home and for some reason you rather live on the streets. I suspect the latter. That’s why you were in Mrs. Hudson’s bins, you were, as they say “dumpster diving.”” John stares at the girl who sits up straight on the couch, the towel still draped over her shoulders, mug gripped tightly in both hands sitting upon her lap. Most people wouldn’t have caught all that judging by how fast he was speaking, but she is not “most people.”  
“Don’t look at me like that.” She snaps. Staring directly ahead at Sherlock. John looks at Sherlock.  
“Not me.” He says, veering his gaze towards John. John shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat. “So, what’s your name?” Sherlock says before taking a sip of tea. She remains silent, after a few seconds of staring he leans forwards. “I’m not going to send you to an orphanage. What. Is. Your. name.”  
“Laurette.” She says sharply.   
“How did you look at our websites then, Laurette?” John says with a sympathetic tone, which only makes Laurette more furious with him.   
“The public library, how do you think I got this intellectual without going to Secondary School? I would be in University already, I would breeze straight through it.” Each sentence is delivered with venom.  
“Why don’t you go to an orphanage?” Laurette tucks her hair behind her ear.   
“I should go now, the rubbish bins behind Jasmine’s will be full by now.” She puts the mug of tea on the coffee table and stands up. The rain has died down a bit and is now a trickle down the window panes. Agonizing memories pierce like knives in her back of her head, longing to come forth while she struggles to push them back. She takes the towel off her shoulders and tosses it on the couch. “Freak, weirdo, you deserve this” No. She warns the memories to stay back, back in the tiny crevice in her head she put them three years ago. She closes her eyes. No.  
“Are you alright?” John stands up and slowly moves towards her.  
“Don’t touch me!” She cries snapping her eyes open and stepping back, it came out sounding much more vulnerable than she wanted. Vulnerable is bad, she does not like vulnerable.   
“Alright, alright.” John says putting his hands up as if surrendering. “Just calm down.” All she can think about is how much of a scared little child she must look like to them right now. How stupid she must look, if there is one thing she doesn’t like its stupid oh, and vulnerable. Sherlock just observes from his chair, his legs crossed and mug in hand. Expression blank. She needs to hold herself together until she gets out the door.   
“I’ll be leaving now.” She says slowly.   
“Back on the streets? No, no way. You can stay here.” John looks at Sherlock who is now leaning with his hands sandwiched together under his nose. Contemplated.  
“So you can just throw me in an orphanage in the morning? I’ve been doing this for three years I think I can manage.” She turns abruptly and heads towards the door.  
“Can’t you take some food or something? It’s bloody raining outside! Take a jacket or umbrella!” Laurette clutches the door handle. She’s almost out the door when she turns around.  
“I am not a charity case.” The door hammers shut behind her.


	3. A Set of Detestable Childhoods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *throws chapter 3 in your face* *runs away*
> 
>  
> 
> I don't now how fic writers do it. It's kind of hard to write Sherlock's character whoops I said it.
> 
>  
> 
> "Her hair was always pulled back in a tight bun. Laurette often wondered if maybe it was a little too tight."

Chapter 3:  
A Set of Detestable Childhoods  
The atmosphere was heavy with humidity and made Laurette’s hair cling to the back of her neck as she painstakingly sped down Baker Street. The smell of rain on pavement wafted through the polluted London air. She could try to make it all the way back to where the others stayed, but she predicted she would break down before then. Her eyes darted everywhere. A man in a business suit raced hastily by, one hand on his blue tooth and the other carrying a brief case. Her eyes rushed to the white hairs on his dress pants. Cat… two cats. Then to his suit. Expensive. 450 pounds. Fake Silver cufflinks. That was all she could manage in the brief moment he walked by. Her eyes then rushed over to a homeless women begging for change. Old coat, but not taken from the rubbish. New hat that was purposely made to look old. Trainers far too nice for a homeless woman. Cardboard far too unsoiled. She was not homeless. Laurette could not distract herself much longer. She approached the next alley and made a sharp turn into it, two huge rubbish bins rested on the right hand side. She scrambled after them and ducked behind. No one could see her. She sat with her legs laid out and her back rested against the bins. She buried her face into the palms of her hands.  
Growing up, no one at the orphanage ever seemed to appreciate her intellect. Especially Mrs. Lemnad, she did not like the fact that Laurette “noticed” things. Like when she “noticed” that the necklace she wore was fake gold and fake diamond. Mrs. Lemnad didn’t like that she “noticed” it was utter rubbish. Laurette didn’t think “noticing” these things was rude. She thought she was pointing out the obvious. Other little girls didn’t like it when Laurette pointed out that clearly Mary Anne stole Angelica’s Barbie. Or when she noticed Bobbie was hiding Golden Fish under his pillow. The children would call her things like “freak” and “weirdo.” At first, although slightly bitter feelings towards her, Mrs. Lemnad would tell the other children to stop harassing her. They would do as they were told. Nothing ever happened while Mrs. Lemnad was there. There was always school though. Notes were thrown at the back of her head, hidden in her cubby, and when she was older, in her locker. Girls would write things on the bathroom wall. But nothing would happen besides there meaningless words out of fear of Mrs. Lemnad.  
When she was 12 she accidently noticed too much. She had gotten so much better at “noticing.” And she was very curious.  
“Mrs. Lemnad?” She stood in front of her desk in the orphanage.  
“I’m busy right now Laurette, please come by later.” Mrs. Lemnad typed away at her desk, her glasses on the very tip of her nose. Her hair was always pulled back in a tight bun. Laurette often wondered if maybe it was a little too tight.  
“Oh it’s just a quick question.” Laurette’s hair was pulled back with a hair tie. At this age it was still long, wavy, and a mousy brown. She stood with her hands folded behind her back. Mrs. Lemnad sighed and took off her glasses.  
“Yes dear?”  
“Why did you feel it necessary to require a boyfriend when you already have a husband?” Mrs. Lemnad looked at her in astonishment, her mouth agape. Laurette meant no harm; she only wanted to better understand this strange behavior. Mrs. Lemnad stared at Laurette for a long time.  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She spit out and turned back to her computer. Lying was useless; Mrs. Lemnad was quite transparent to Laurette.   
“Well-“Laurette creased her brow. “Ye-yes you do. I just don’t understand why. You’ve been with your husband for…” she studied Mrs. Lemnad’s ring for a moment. “nine years. Why would you-?”  
“Leave.” Spat Mrs. Lemnad crisply.  
“But I just-“  
“LEAVE!” Mrs. Lemnad bolted up from her desk and pointed at the door. Laurette did as told and ran to it, when she closed it behind her other children were sitting on the benches that lined the hallway. She felt eyes follow her all the way down the hall until she was out of sight.  
That was when Mrs. Lemnad started to forget to tell the other children to stop.  
“No.” Both of Laurette’s hands now clenched her hair. She could feel water drip on her shoulder from the rim of the bin. She tried to focus on its rhythm. Drip, one two three, drip, one two three, drip. Her breathing evened and the grip on her hair loosened. She sighed and leaned her head back against the bin. She could still hear, and feel, the “drip, drip” of the water on her shoulder. Suddenly she was cold. A shiver made its way down her spine. She could feel the dampness from which the ground she sat. She rose slowly, using the bin to guide her. She was not lying when she told John and Sherlock that the bins behind Jasmine’s would be full, and if she wanted to eat tonight she would have to hurry.  
“Sherlock?” John still hadn’t dried off yet. “Do you even have an opinion on this?” John said in his sassy tone. He knew Sherlock had an opinion; he had an opinion on everything. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and stood up.  
“Of course I do.” Sherlock took Laurette’s mug into the kitchen.  
“Well? You mind sharing?” Just then Sherlock’s mobile phone rang from inside his pocket.  
“Yes?” He said as he answered. A minute passed before Sherlock spoke again. “We’ll be right there.” Sherlock hung up and started to walk towards his coat and scarf that hung off the back of the door. “Dry off. We’re leaving.”  
“What about the girl?” John urged.  
“She’s fine. That was Lestrade, new case.” He wrapped his scarf around his neck. John was still standing where he was when Laurette left. “Come on!” Sherlock barked. John exhaled air out of his nose and did as commanded.  
“No bruises, cuts or bullet wounds and no trace of any kind of poison in her blood stream.” Lestrade, John, and Sherlock stood around the body of a 20 year old girl in St. Bart’s morgue.  
“Where was she found?” Sherlock asked as he started to search the body for any kinds of markings or clues.  
“In her flat, on her bed.”  
“Time of death?” He searched for his magnifying glass in his coat pockets.  
“12:37am” He found his magnifying glass and flipped it open. When he was done searching he looked at John, signaling him to inspect the body.  
“We’ll need to search her flat.”  
“We already have.”  
“Exactly.” Sherlock stuffed his magnifying glass back into his coat pocket. “Where is it?”  
“You can’t search it.”  
“What?” John placed his fingers on the lady's neck.  
“Forensics are there now and no one else can search it until they’re done. And don’t go trespassing either, Sherlock.” Lestrade warns. Sherlock rolls his eyes.  
“When will they be done?”  
“In about four hours.”  
“Four hours!?”  
“Sorry Sherlock, You’ll just have to wait.” Lestrade shrugged and hurried out of the morgue before he could be further protested against.  
“Ugh, waiting. Waiting is boring.” Sherlock murmurs.

John and Sherlock get out of the cab that took them home from St. Bart’s. Sherlock immediately started to make his way to Speedy’s  
“Sherlock? Where you going?”  
“I’ll be back in a bit.”  
“What? Sherlock?!” Sherlock was already opening the door to Speedy’s. John decided it was probably best to just let Sherlock do whatever he was doing, and walked towards 221B.  
Sherlock was in the 12th grade, he could have skipped this grade but his parents refused for absurd reasons like “life experience”. As if his awkward figure didn’t give people a reason to pick on him, his intellect was always there to finish the job. He didn’t have any friends. He was pushed around and yelled at; a few times boys would plan to beat him up. He always knew what they were planning, though, and nearly always seemed to find a way around it. At the beginning of school he always raised his hand, but the further he got into the school year the more he just sat there. Half of the time he was bored out of his mind. Everyday new insults, that clearly represented the offenders' home life, were spat in his face and everyday he had a snarky comment on the stupidity behind said insult. Each day he sat alone at lunch. Not a single person ever said something kind to young Sherlock Holmes. It was either an insult or nothing at all. He moved out two months after turning eighteen.  
Laurette finally walked down the alley behind Jasmine’s. She placed her hand on her stomach as it roared at the smell of Lo Mein. The familiar sharp pain in the pit returned. She grinned as she turned the corner to see the bins. She threw the top of one off, eager to finally eat. (After all, she was interrupted earlier.) She was startled at what she saw. There, sitting perfectly atop a pile of half eaten chicken and rice, was a little white box wrapped in a pink ribbon. She picked it up in her hands and stared at it in awe. She carefully untied the ribbon and let it fall onto the ground. She slowly lifted its lid and the most delightful smell filled her nostrils. A dozen pastries sat perfectly untouched. A note was taped to the lid.  
Tea?  
-SH


	4. Tea for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what the name of the chapter is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long and sorry it's so short. I went on a mini vacation and when I got I had a 26 second Teaser Trailer to fangirl over. :)

Chapter 4:  
Tea for Two.  
The sun hit the air in such a way that Laurette could see particles in the air. They slowly drifted and danced about in the golden sun light. She sat in the chair to the left of the fireplace while Sherlock sat in the right. He cautiously poured the steaming hot tea into two cups that sat on saucers.  
“Sugar?” Sherlock asked.  
“Please.” Laurette didn’t understand why he had invited her. Part of her didn’t even know why she bothered to come, but at the same time, she knew exactly why she showed. Sherlock finished mixing in the sugar and handed the tea to her. Laurette carefully grabbed it by its saucer ad rested it on her lap. He then grabbed his tea and leaned back in his chair. “Why did you invite me here?”  
“Why did you come?” Sherlock replied. He took a sip of his tea.   
“Free tea?” Laurette said jokingly, staring at the steam that drifted from the contents of her cup.  
“I beg to differ.” He said placing his cup back into the saucer. Laurette creased her brow and then took a sip of her tea. It was piping hot and burned as it slid down her throat. She tried her best to make her face unreadable. “Have you seen any drug dealers of recent?”   
“What?” Laurette paused tea cup inches from her face.   
“Have you?”   
“Are you forgetting that I’m homeless? I see drug dealers all the time.”   
“Ah, yes. But this one would have been different.”  
“In what ways?”  
“Maybe a little out of his element.” Sherlock sat up straight. “Maybe a bit too clean looking.”  
“This is what you wanted to talk about? Drug dealers? Why me? You can walk outside and find a homeless on any street corner.”  
“Well, it was much faster this way wasn’t it?”  
“Considering that I waited a whole day after you asked me to come, no.” Laurette took another sip of tea hoping it wouldn’t singe the roof of her mouth this time. Fortunately, it didn’t. She put the cup back down. Many seconds passed before she spoke again. “Is this about that woman they found dead in her apartment yesterday?” Sherlock raised both eyebrows and sipped his tea again. “I’ll help you if you tell me more.”  
“Or I could just “walk outside and find any other homeless person on any street corner.”” Laurette breathed heavily out of her nose.  
“I haven’t seen any drug dealers that look “out of there element” or “too clean” but I can take you to a few people who might have.” She paused and leaned forwards. “Only if you tell me more.”  
“More tea?” He asked gesturing towards the tea pot.  
“No thanks.” Laurette retorts with snappy tone.  
“Very well.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “What would you like to know?”  
“Cause of death?”  
“Modified drugs.”  
“Modified drugs?”  
“Yes, drugs engineered to completely disappear in the blood stream after the victim dies.”  
“And you know this how, exactly?”   
“What else would it be?” Laurette raised her eyebrow, obviously Sherlock had not given her the right information in order for her to work it out herself. “There was no bullet wound, no cuts or scars or bruises? They couldn’t find anything abnormal in her blood. It’s the only possible explanation.”  
“So…” Laurette paused to think through her conclusion. “You think a drugs dealer purposely gave the women “modified” drugs.” Sherlock nodded his head.  
“Except he’s not a drugs dealer.”   
“What! But you just said-“  
“I said he looks like a drugs dealer.” Laurette was not finding the little game Sherlock was playing amusing. She wanted to consume all the information she could as fast as she could. Not play “Whose Case is it Anyway?” Sherlock, sensing this, decided he wanted to play some more. “Think.” He practically hissed. Laurette put both elbows on her knees and her fingers on her temples. She stared blank and distant at the corner of the rug beneath Sherlock’s chair.   
Sherlock had said “Except he’s not a drugs dealer.” And “I said he looked like a drugs dealer.” Meaning that he, is indeed, a man. A man that looks “a bit too clean” and “a little out of his element.” A man that purposely sold modified drugs to a young woman knowing that they would kill her. The pieces of the puzzle were slowly coming together.   
“The man.” She said snapping her head up from her far away state to look at Sherlock. “He was the one who modified the drugs?” She looked at Sherlock with hopeful eyes. “That’s why he looks out of place right? You’d have to be some kind of scientist to do that. You’d have to have some kind of degree?” Laurette was talking much faster than usual.  
“Good.” He remarked. Laurette let out a small sat back in her chair. She solved his puzzle. “But the question is why? Why did he want the women dead?” His fingers danced wildly up and down on the leather of his chair.   
“I-I don’t know…” She said glancing at his rapidly moving fingers. A pounding sound echoed through the quiet room. Sherlock stood up abruptly and walked towards his coat.  
“Well, it’s time to find out.”


End file.
